


Tigers Play Too Rough

by Blake



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: BDSM, Canon Compliant, Hair-pulling, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Pornography, Spain, Sub Harry, The X Factor Era, Timeline What Timeline, cute idiot baby gays, oh Hannah is mentioned as a real thing, so light cheating maybe?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 14:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15687087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Louis puts on his Determined Face, which, Harry has noticed, involves avoiding eye contact. “You’re…,” Louis crosses his arms on his chest and looks down, tragically unaffected by Harry’s bum. “You’re, like, tying me up, yeah?” he asks, so rushed that it sounds breathless, his face twisting up into a sideways grimace at the end.----Or, Harry wants to try something new with Louis, and things don't go quite the way he had imagined.





	Tigers Play Too Rough

**Author's Note:**

> I'm starting a new job tomorrow, so I wanted to get this posted to celebrate the end of my overabundance of writing time! I wrote most of this story a couple years ago, when I was brand new to the fandom, so it's a little weird, despite my editor's best efforts to save me from myself! But I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. More later-years canon fics coming up soon!
> 
> I love you all so much for reading!

Harry feels like he’s never seen sunlight before, that he’s looking at it for the first time, white and blinding and bursting all over and around Louis’s bare skin as if he’s made up of the same stuff, like the light and salt and blue are breathing in and out of his pores. Whatever Harry had thought sunlight was before, he must have been wrong. 

“Reckon I could swim all the way to Africa?” Louis asks, grin as wide as his eyes and voice just as sparkly. He’s kicking his bare shins noisily through the shallow water, the cool drops landing on Harry’s body but warming him anyway. Harry feels like he’s baking, like Louis’s radiant heat is cooking him slowly and thoroughly from the outside in, and once he’s done, he’ll be sweet and fluffy and perfect for Louis. It’s only a matter of time.

Harry parts his mouth to come up with a response because Louis’s looking at _him_ as he’s splashing through clear, lapping waves and talking about exotic ambitions, but someone somewhere behind Harry shouts out, “Race you! First one to catch a lion wins!” Harry frowns at Niall’s voice because, honestly, can’t everyone else tell that the world is just him and Louis? Don’t they realize that they don’t actually exist when Louis looks at him like that?

But Louis isn’t looking at him anymore, he’s turned to watch Niall run with violently splashing steps into the sea until it’s deep enough to jump into headfirst. Harry nuzzles his head into his pillow of sand, listening to the grinding ocean as a wave shimmies up to his ankles. Louis’s bum looks so, _so_ good in those shorts. Harry got to kiss over the curve of that bum last night, the mere memory of it making his breath come out wheezy.

There’s a visible twitch in Louis’s muscles as he resists the instinct to dive right in after Niall and win the race in a competitive fury. Harry bites his lip, loving how he already knows that Louis won’t throw himself into winning any game unless he himself has made up the rules. There’s sand grinding in his smile as Louis turns back around to face him. “A lion? S’that what you want, Hazza?” Louis asks brightly. “Want me to wrestle a lion for you?”

Harry continues chewing on sand as he soaks up Louis’s attention, basking in the fact that Louis’s waiting on _his_ input, that he’s dismissing Niall’s game to let Harry create one for him instead. Even Zayn’s dismissive _pshh_ sound doesn’t bring Harry down, nor does the scrape of Zayn’s feet burrowing under his knees, not even his, “Reckon you could, like, _maybe_ take down, like, a small meerkat.”

Ultimately, Harry shakes his head, getting sand in his ear. “Lions ain’t the kind I love enough,” he drawls, grinning proudly at this boy who would fight a lion for him.

Louis tilts his head and looks at him curiously, like he’s thrown off by Harry’s turn of phrase or maybe by his bad American accent. He cocks his hip and plants a hand on it as the water licks his thighs, and Harry has never thought water was sexy before, but, well. “What do you love enough, then?” Louis asks, flicking his fringe out of his eyes like he’s daring Harry to do something about it. Harry just rolls over, away from Zayn’s feet and face-down into wet sand, so that if (when) Louis’s teasing starts getting to his prick, it’ll be a little less obvious to the other boys.

Somewhere above Harry’s head, Liam sighs a put-upon sigh and starts singing as though it’s a chore that no one else has taken the initiative to do. “ _Baby, let me be your little teddy bear. Put a chain around my neck and lead me anywhere_.”

Harry props himself up on an elbow and smiles contentedly at Louis, who’s smiling right back at him as though nothing exists but the two of them and the sun, sand, sea, and sky, all of which are actually part of Louis, too.

After a moment, Louis’s eyes narrow even further, his eyelids crinkling deeply in the sunlight to reveal only a glint of blue as he scrunches his nose in Liam’s direction and cuts him off with an incredulous, “Is that your _Elvis_ impression, Liam?” The mocking disdain in Louis’s voice feels warm to Harry _because_ it’s so cold, so different from the charmed, _tell me more_ > tone he teases _Harry_ with. “You sound like a wounded goose.”

Liam mumbles an explanation about how different the air is in Spain and how they should be practicing more to adjust to the atmosphere, all while walking gradually into the waves. He gets about waist-deep just as Niall returns, claiming that his lion carcass got eaten by a shark on the way back.

A couple of minutes later, Zayn murmurs, “Didn’t know you two were into the whips and chains already,” prompting Harry to tilt his head back enough to see the quiet, amused twinkle in Zayn’s dark eyes, which are fixed on the horizon, before he looks over to see if Louis heard his scandalous comment as well. But Louis’s jumping over a gentle incoming wave, the muscles of his strong back gleaming in the water-streaked light.

Harry collapses flat onto the sand again, nuzzling his cheek into it as a little seawater finds its way up to his mouth. Louis’s gorgeous. And Harry gets to kiss him. And Zayn apparently knows it. But, surprisingly, that fact doesn’t make it feel any less like a secret, like a private, exclusive, world. Harry closes his eyes against the next wave. “Sadly, neither,” Harry sighs as it recedes, not sure if he’s trying to speak loud enough to be heard by anyone but himself. A vision flashes before his closed eyes of this one porno clip he’s watched loads of times, one of his favourites, with a small, smooth-skinned man tied up, gagged, and blindfolded as another man fucks him from behind. He wonders if someday he might get to see Louis tied up, gagged, blindfolded, and fucked.

Harry opens his eyes to see Louis struggling to keep his head above water, paddling in place long enough to grin at Harry and spit water vaguely in his direction. It’s a good thing Harry made the decision to hide his dick in the sand.

“One Moroccan teddy bear, coming right up,” Louis yells before turning to start swimming in earnest into the horizon.

Baking in the golden sun that he’s seeing for the first time, Harry thinks about how just a matter of weeks ago, he was a sad, unloved boy whose destiny was to become _that lad from our town who was on telly that one time_ and perpetually watch pornography of men who were cuter than anyone he would ever hope to date.

Now he’s on the Mediterranean coast, being told that he’s part of what could be a real-life, famous boy band, exhausted from staying up all night in a king-sized four-poster bed kissing all over the body of a fit, funny, athletic, powerful god of a boy who might be made of sunshine and sea.

Here, Harry feels too light to be weighted down by the harsh realities of life. He doesn’t have to think about his grueling four-hour work shifts. He doesn’t have to think about the fact that somewhere out there, Louis has a girlfriend, someone with whom he’s been for much longer than the handful of days he’s spent snogging Harry in every hidden corner. He doesn’t have to think about the possibility of going back to a lonely town, heartbroken and doomed to a life without love when Louis goes back to Hannah. No.

Here, it feels like the millionaire lifestyle could be his. _Theirs_. They might win _The X Factor_. Louis might swim all the way to Africa and bring him back a teddy bear. They might try out some of the things that Harry has seen in porn, and the sex might be incredible. Harry might not die alone. Louis might be made of sunshine.

Apparently not so comfortable that he needs to press for more details, Zayn begins patting sand into mounds over the backs of Harry’s feet. Harry spares a glance at his stupidly amused grin, like he thinks he’s so fucking clever. The sand is pebbly, wet, and doesn’t even compact very well, so Harry kicks free of the trap and spreads his legs further apart.

Zayn just sets right back to work, making new sandy-pebbly piles on his heels. Harry sighs and looks out at Louis’s arms cutting through the water in the distance before shutting his eyes.

After a while, there’s more giggling and two more hands pressing sand over his arms, indicating that Niall came back. Harry squirms slightly and finds that his calves are well covered. Oh, well. He’s too tired and sun-warmed to care.

Then a bright, clear voice cuts through the white noise that the world is comprised of, declaring, “Come on, lads, this won’t do. We’ve got to turn him over, the water’s gonna undo all your hard work if you just leave him there.”

Harry’s body comes alive at the sound of Louis talking about him. He closes his eyes and makes a small wager with himself. If he can recognize Louis’s hands among the other boys’, he’ll…well, he can’t really think of a proper reward more thrilling than knowing that Louis’s hands are touching him.

Six palms are on his body, pushing; Louis’s are on his waist, just above his hip bone, and his rib cage, just below his armpit. Harry breathes and fills Louis’s fingers with it. It feels like magic as he grins.

There’s a lot of splashing, during which Harry tries to stay as limp and unhelpful as possible. If Louis’s going to speak about him as if he’s not there, then he’s going to be as accommodating as possible to the illusion. He gets a mouthful of salty water and a knee to the gut while he’s on his side, but eventually he’s laid to rest on his back with the sun shining hotly down on him.

With the rules now rewritten, Zayn and Niall start all over again, packing sand on the tops of Harry’s feet and arms, while Louis starts dropping huge handfuls of heavy, soggy sand onto his lap. It’s a matter of seconds before Harry’s hips feel stuck in a prison of mud.

And Louis keeps going, moving with flourish at a furious pace, focusing so hard that he doesn’t even look up when Harry opens his eyes.

Once there are several inches of sand stacked atop his groin, Louis pets smoothly over the mound, ironing out all the wrinkles. Harry watches his delicate hands move and can feel it in his bones but not in his dick, which he swears is trying to burst through the caked-on pile. A pathetic whimper climbs out of his throat, and his toes wiggle, unbidden, stretching out until there are cracks in Zayn’s inferior foot-fortress, which apparently makes Zayn give up in frustration because he gets up and walks away, leaving his beach architecture in shambles.

Louis drizzles sand in lazy patterns up the length of Harry’s torso, like a skilled pastry chef icing a cake. At this point, Niall walks away, too, because there’s no point in trying when Louis is so obviously superior at sand-work.

There’s water dripping onto Harry’s face, salt flowing into his open eyes. It’s coming from Louis’s hair as it drips down Louis’s chin, so it’s basically like the same water drops are on both of their faces. Maybe Harry won’t die alone. Louis grins down at him while he looks at Harry’s lips, and it feels like a kiss.

“You’ve completely missed his legs,” says a voice—Liam’s, curious and accusatory, like his chance to embarrass Louis’s sand-skills has finally come. And then there’s more sand falling on Harry’s knees.

Louis’s jaw clenches in irritation. Harry watches the thoughts firing rapidly behind Louis’s eyes, which are the same color as the sky. He can count the ideas and see how fast they come, but he can’t predict them, can’t think as quickly as Louis, who is sunshine.

So he’s not exactly prepared for anything when Louis—with gorgeously strong, bare arms and soft shoulders that probably taste of salt right now—pulls Harry abruptly out of the sand and into the surf.

Clever Louis, getting Harry to himself without exposing his incredibly persistent erection to the world. They roll about in the shallow water, sliding skin and scraping sand and sputtering half-breaths. Harry gets one kiss, dirty with ocean and salt because their lips meet underwater. Louis goes still once they surface, staring at Harry with water dripping over his parted lips.

Liam seems to be trying to start a serious conversation about how the band’s not going to work out if Louis tries to undermine anything the moment Liam takes an interest in it. Harry presses his lips together in a twisted smile because Liam just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get that he doesn’t really exist. It’s just him and Louis. Millionaires, rock stars, kinky gay sex experts.

Louis ducks back under, and Harry goes cold. But then he comes back up again, lighting up the world with the way that he arches his neck so that his hair slicks back, with the way that he’s taking huge, gasping, searching breaths as he looks at Harry. Out of nowhere, an image from another clip that Harry likes to watch sometimes comes to his mind, one with a fit, toned guy getting pushed roughly into a bed, a big hand on his neck shoving his face down so that he can’t breathe while teeth sink deep into the meat of his back as his round arse gets pounded mercilessly. Harry found the video a couple of months ago and came so hard when he watched it that he decided to save it for weekends only, so that he wouldn’t wear it out. It was just so hot, the thought of that boy being held down, struggling so hard and enjoying it so much. Harry wanted to do that for someone, make them feel like that. And as he looks into Louis’s gasp-wide eyes, he thinks, _yeah_.

He turns away from Louis before his heart explodes and looks out at the horizon, where the sea looks like it goes on and on forever, without end.

—

The sea looks just as infinite four hours later, when the sky is going violet and everybody is at the enormous dining table, eating millionaire-type food. Harry told everyone that he had to take a second shower because it still felt like there was sand in his crack; he made it a very long, very thorough shower, so that they’d all start without him, and Louis would understand that Harry’s actually just waiting for him.

It’s not the most graceful plan, but he knows that Louis’s coming for him. Harry wants him so badly, his whole body is thrumming, and it has nothing to do with the astringent eucalyptus shower gel he just used. It’s just been _so long_ , what with the early rehearsals and the beach date with the lads and then the later rehearsals…it’s been, like, fourteen whole hours since he had Louis under his mouth. Stupid with coming three times in one sleepless night, Harry had dared to ask, _Can I, erm, try rimming you?_ to which Louis had responded with a pause and a messy, slurping, _Erm, yeah_ , which had turned into muffled shriek a minute later when Harry actually tried to put his tongue in Louis’s arsehole, which had led to shivering moans as Harry explained how he’d seen it done before, how he _wanted_ to, how if it didn’t feel good, they could stop. It had resulted in a fourth orgasm for each of them and a new, delicious smell smeared across Harry’s face that he kept breathing in as he finally, happily fell asleep at dawn.

He hasn’t even _kissed_ Louis since that one underwater kiss, salty and musky as Louis’s arse.

Finally, he hears footsteps in the hall and knows that Louis has made some excuse to step away from his life-of-the-party responsibilities. Harry’s breathless with all the things he wants to try, all the things he thinks Louis might let him do to him. It’s not like the steady stream of grinding and handjobs, or being the recipient of Louis’s first several blowjobs, aren’t enough. It’s just that Harry knows of _so many_ things that are possible, and he wants it all, everything. He arranges himself on the bed in what he hopes is a seductive pose, kind of like Kate Winslet in _Titanic_. 

As soon as Louis stumbles through the door and onto the bed, he kisses all thought of porn out of Harry’s head. Seriously, Harry has come harder in his pants just kissing Louis’s delicious, soft, wet, strong mouth than he ever has fucking his hand while watching j _ock gets dom’d dick’d HARD_. Louis curls right up alongside him so that they’re facing each other, so that their legs tangle and their chests press together as frequently as their teeth clash. Harry’s whole body sighs in ecstasy and relief. _Fourteen whole hours_.

“Fucking missed you,” Louis sighs, in between perfect kisses.

“Mmh,” Harry whines, his mouth full of Louis’s tongue. He grabs Louis’s T-shirt and clutches it tightly, trying to convey what he can’t say when Louis’s making French-kissing sound like a joke a toddler once made up. He doesn’t have the motor control to actually push Louis’s top up, but he gets the idea across anyway. Louis pulls back just enough to fit his arms between them and pull his shirt across his chest.

It’s when Louis breaks the seal of their lips to draw the top over his head that Harry gets struck by inspiration and pounces. Literally. He puts Louis on his back and pins his arms down using the shirt that’s wrapped around his elbows. 

It… _looks_ good.

Harry fidgets on his knees, uncertain. The inspiration kind of saps out of him the second that he has what he wants, Louis on his back with his arms trapped and blinking up at him. He doesn’t know where to go from here, was counting on taking cues from his own body or from Louis’s reaction.

Louis keeps blinking up at him. Harry can’t tell if he’s slightly furrowing his forehead or if he’s got a tiny, questioning lift to one eyebrow, but something’s there.

The awkward, frozen atmosphere reminds Harry of the time he asked Louis if he could suck his cock for the first time, and Louis had gotten so _weird_ about it, going so quiet and rigid that Harry feared he had fucked something up: maybe Louis thought it was a gross thing to ask, maybe it was bad that Harry had asked to blow him before asking to be blown, maybe he wasn’t supposed to be drooling at the thought, maybe it was against protocol to blow someone the second time you’ve made out and before you’ve even touched his cock with your hand. But through the inhibitions, Harry had persevered, and the second he got his face pressing into the deliciously hot crotch of Louis’s jeans, Louis had reacted in such a way that erased all doubt from his mind.

Persevering again, Harry does something to shift the mood, to see if something changes. He moves one of his knees to Louis’s other side, so that he’s straddled over his hips, his semi-hard cock hanging down almost low enough to graze Louis’s tummy. Louis’s staring at it, and a tiny, hungry grunt comes from his sealed lips.

Obviously wanting to touch, Louis tries to bring his arms down from above his head. There’s an awkward tug at the fabric, which Harry isn’t so much _holding_ as he is pressing it into the bed with a flat, braced palm.

Louis’s eyes flash up from his cock to his face, and Harry feels instantly empty inside at the _annoyed_ expression in them. He sits up properly in an instant, letting go of Louis’s top and everything he had half a mind to do with it. He has fucked up terribly. “Sorry!” Harry squeaks, feeling like he’s overstepped some boundary, just by holding onto a piece of fabric for a moment too long.

Instead of reaching for Harry’s cock (understandable, given how Harry ruined everything), Louis slips free of the shirt and brings one hand to his own mouth, to bite the side of his thumb. He doesn’t look annoyed anymore, in fact, he looks…like he’s thinking really hard. Like maybe he’s realizing that he doesn’t like Harry that much after all.

Harry’s about to lean in and shamelessly kiss him to distract him from such life-ruining revelations when Louis pulls his thumb from his lips with a slick sound and says, “S’alright…,” with an audible _dot dot dot_ at the end. Harry hears it and waits anxiously for the rest. Hoping it will help his case, he lowers his hips until he’s seated lightly in Louis’s lap.

Louis puts on his Determined Face, which, Harry has noticed, involves avoiding eye contact. “You’re…,” Louis crosses his arms on his chest and looks down, tragically unaffected by Harry’s bum. “You’re, like, tying me up, yeah?” he asks, so rushed that it sounds breathless, his face twisting up into a sideways grimace at the end. His fingers fidget over his elbows like he’s playing a piano piece he hasn’t quite memorized.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, yeah?” Harry murmurs, hoping that his voice doesn’t sound as panicky out loud as it does in his head. He shifts his hips a little lower, wincing as his balls scrape over the cold metal of Louis’s fly. If they could just get back to kissing…

“No, s’alright, you c’n…,” Louis is cut off by his own frustrated little whimper. It’s an impatient sound. Here Harry is, dawdling and being useless, while Louis gets impatient with him. It’s dreadful.

Instead of crying about it, Harry surges into action, and they’re kissing again, which is good. He melts a little bit, but then he remembers Louis’s impatience and clumsily captures Louis’s wrists in his hands, awkwardly drawing them up and over his head, working against something that’s not quite resistance but surely isn’t compliance either. There’s enough physical tension in Louis’s arms to suggest that he’s trying to move them himself but maybe doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it. 

With Louis’s wrists finally pinned to the mattress, his elbows winged up into the air, Harry shifts one hand and then the other, gradually edging up to pin Louis down by the biceps. Finally, Louis lifts his gaze to meet Harry’s eyes.

Harry can’t take it anymore, so he lowers himself down to kiss Louis properly, everything finally feeling almost normal when Louis sighs into it. There’s no hand in his hair, though, which feels kind of weird, makes Harry feel too free or something, like he doesn’t know where to settle the weight of his head. The first time they kissed, back at the bungalow when things were magical but not sunshiny, Louis had a hand in his hair for an agonizing eternity before their lips even touched. That trembling hand held him close to keep him from turning away and mumbling _never mind_ or from dissolving into a puddle like Harry had wanted to after saying the thing he never meant to say out loud. And then that hand held him at a distance, kept him from spilling forward to kiss the lips he was staring at and talking about as Louis made him say, like, three hundred times that, yes, he _did_ really want to kiss him. That hand had held him in place, keeping his skull from smashing against the wall from the force of their second kiss.

Ungrounded by that hand, Harry finds himself lazily licking over Louis’s lower lip one way and then back the other way. He sucks gently at the thin peak of his upper lip and opens up easily when Louis reaches up to slip his tongue hungrily into Harry’s mouth.

Muscle clenches under his palms as Louis tries to bring his arms up, the soft swell of it so hot that Harry’s fingers clench around it, pressing into the meat of his biceps.

Louis breaks their kiss with a frustrated grunt and then—then Harry kind of loses track of himself. The world spins a bit when Louis’s hands get on him somehow, and Harry lands on his back, breathless from impact or from the sudden rush of blood to his cock as Louis looks down at him hotly like he’s exactly where Louis wants him.

There’s a new awareness starting to tingle in the very back of Harry’s brain. But Louis just looks so hot and so _touchable_.

He’s only planning to palm over his tummy, but Louis maybe sees the movement as a threat because he intercepts Harry’s reaching hands midway to their destination and slams them to the bed on either side of his head, and Harry _moans_ as his dick stiffens while the rest of him goes totally limp.

_Oh_.

Breathing in a revelation, Harry parts his lips to get more air as Louis leans in, putting all his weight on the joint of Harry’s wrists and staring down at something in the vicinity of Harry’s throat. Harry twists his hands just to feel the chaffing on his skin and then sighs and sinks into his own stillness when Louis’s grip doesn’t budge. _Oh_.

He’s not sure if it’s just his own body running hot, but he thinks that Louis looks _inspired_. If the way Louis grinds his hips down hard onto Harry’s is any indication, then he must like the way Harry looks, too.

Louis makes a helpless, croaking sound at the same time that Harry whimpers, arching up into the trap of Louis’s hips, but Harry loses track of movement when suddenly both his wrists are stacked under only one of Louis’s hands, the pressure more acute. Louis’s other hand slides into Harry’s hair, and with a sudden, dick-hardening longing, Harry realizes just how badly he wants Louis to _pull_.

And then, like magic, Louis _pulls_.

Harry gasps like he’s coming, but his face and chest and cock are all too warm and fuzzy for him to feel embarrassed. Besides, when he realizes that his eyes have fallen shut and finds it in him to open them again, he sees that Louis’s looking down at him like he’s just discovered electricity. It’s the same way he looked about halfway through the first time he brought Harry off with his hand. Like an impassioned scientist, he twists Harry’s hair further, jerking his neck painfully in this way that makes Harry’s cock flex against the denim seat of Louis’s jeans. Harry forces his eyes open again, desperate to see that calculating look on Louis’s face as he takes in the results of his experiment.

He’s so fucking pretty that Harry wants to crumble.

“You like that?” Louis whispers, dark and reverent and shaky all at once. The way he moves is fucking gorgeous; Harry’s mouth waters as Louis moves a knee to pin down his inner thigh.

Whimpering again, Harry bucks up against the pressure, and Louis _stays_ , Louis _digs in more_ , Louis doesn’t think that Harry’s trying to get free because he somehow just _knows_ that Harry wants to feel stuck. _Harry_ didn’t even know that he wanted to feel stuck, not until this moment. He can’t believe how right it all is, that _this_ is how they fit together.

There’s a hot explosion low in his belly as he remembers the pretty porn boys being shoved face-first into the mattress, choked, slapped, tied up, and he realizes for the first time that _he_ wants to _be_ those pretty boys.

And just like Harry _knew_ how good it would be for both of them if Louis let him eat him out, he _knows_ that Louis wants this, too. He can feel it in his bones. As well as in the erection that’s digging into his stomach and the pained, hot expression on Louis’s face.

“Could you,” Harry stutters, struggling to breathe with his neck still pulled at a tight angle, “Could you pull my hair again?”

Louis’s fingers clench, and Harry hears his breath cut short, but that’s it. “Yeah?” Louis asks, as breathless as Harry.

“Please,” Harry begs, nodding his head with what little freedom he has until he can’t anymore because Louis tugs his hair all the way back and latches on with teeth to Harry’s bared throat.

And Harry feels like he’s caught fire. Louis works at his neck, biting and stinging and _people will notice tomorrow_ and there’s a sharp pain in his scalp that’s blinding him and making him drool against Louis’s tensed forearm, but he doesn’t care. _Please_ , Harry mouths against the skin there because he wants to feel this pretty much forever.

“Fuck,” Louis whimpers into his neck as he thrusts down on Harry’s stomach, smashing Harry’s dick under his thigh, and the too-much pressure of it and the denim scrape feel awful but _so good_. Harry drools some more as he Louis’s forearm wetly, but Louis keeps rubbing down onto him, using his stomach to get off on. Harry’s so fucking hard; he’s getting his own stomach so fucking wet.

Either his vision has gone white or his eyes are shut tight, but his body floods hot imagining the picture that he must make, pinned under Louis’s moving body, taking what he’s given. He almost comes from the thought of it alone. His next breath is a jumbled gasp of, “Good under you?” against Louis’s skin.

But Louis doesn’t answer. He suddenly releases Harry’s hair like he’s just been burned, drops his head fully onto Harry’s chest, and _bites_ _down,_ thrusting and then going still against Harry’s thigh, _coming_ as he fills Harry’s body with brilliant hot pain.

Harry doesn’t even miss the grip in his hair, he’s so overwhelmed by the cut of Louis’s teeth sending pulses down his stomach, all the way down to flood out the tip of his cock, so perfectly trapped by the heavy weight keeping him from bucking, so in awe of the way that Louis’s latched on so sharply, as if Harry’s acute pain is the only thing grounding Louis to the world.

As Harry starts to sense himself tipping over the edge, he has a fleeting feeling of disappointment, like it’s almost anticlimactic that he should come like this with Louis’s dead weight and denim on top of him like so much packed wet sand. It feels like he should have been able to withstand _more pain_ before being allowed to come. The feeling lasts about two seconds, and then he’s slipping deep into the ecstasy of letting go, each tug of Louis’s sharp mouth ripping more out of him until he’s empty, drifting, perfect.

There’s a hand wiping his stomach clean when his senses come back to him, Louis staring down at the movements of his own sticky hand, looking dazed. The golden light that’s filled Harry to the brim abruptly retracts. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice strained from the angle of looking down and also probably from coming so hard.

Louis startles and looks up at him, eyes soft and dark. “Am _I_ okay,” he repeats, as though it’s a stupid question. “Are _you_ okay? You’re the one I, like…,” he huffs to a stop, looking down again at the place where he’s holding himself high over Harry’s spent, flushed, exposed body. Harry starts to feel really bad, like he’s done something really wrong. “I got scared of how much I was holding you down, but..but then I guess...I hurt you?” Louis babbles, pulling his hands back from Harry’s skin and looking at them with too many crinkles in his forehead.

“Yeah, but, it didn’t _hurt_ hurt, you know, and, like, I’m sorry, _but are you okay_?” Harry reaches with still-tingling hands to hold Louis’s face, hoping against hope that it’s a comforting gesture. Louis had seemed like he was having such a good time, but now he seems so sad, and Harry _needs_ to make it right. This is _his fault_.

Louis’s cheeks soften beneath Harry’s palms, the tension starting to seep out of his body. “I think so?” he offers. His beautiful fingers return to Harry’s abdomen, making him gasp as they graze up to the spot just below the red, swollen mark of his bite. “I didn’t scare you?”

A different kind of pain washes over Harry as he realizes that _he_ scared _Louis_. He throws his arms around Louis’s neck and drags him down into the tightest hug his weakened arms can muster. “Erm, no,” he says as clearly as he can, unable to give voice to the passion in his body, to the _you were perfect, you give me just what I need, you make me perfect_. “Kind of… the opposite.” He wishes he could say the rest of it. Maybe someday he’ll be able to.

In the meantime, he relishes the way that Louis’s body sags down into his, making it hard to breathe anything but the warm, sea-salty scent of Louis’s damp breath. It almost feels like Louis’s going to start crying, but through his pores or something, like the kind of mist that’s almost indistinguishable from rain. He just feels like tears in Harry’s arms.

“I’m sorry I made you,” Harry hiccups, embarrassed to hear tears in his own voice.

Of course, that sound makes Louis perk up, makes him drag himself closer until their faces are pressed together. His eyes are wide as he adamantly assures Harry, “You didn’t make me.”

“But—”

When Harry fails to say anything further, Louis goes on. “I’m just...I just don’t know what it means.”

“What what means?”

Louis’s eyelashes flutter down. He steals a solitary kiss, as if for courage, and Harry’s drowning in loving him when he says, “That I, like, thought it was really hot how much you liked...all that.”

Just the words make Harry feel hot again, so he smirks, finding some of his confidence again. He certainly has some videos he’d like to show Louis. Maybe he should have showed Louis those videos before they started all of this. “I should have asked you first” Harry admits as he takes another kiss and swoons at how he can feel Louis starting to smile against his lips.

“Erm,” Louis murmurs into the kiss, before pulling back, his eyes as dreamy blue as the Mediterranean. “Ask me next time?”

Harry nods excitedly, feeling knots tangling in his hair against the sheets. Their abdomens are sticking together uncomfortably, and Louis’s pants probably feel even worse. “Do you think we’re allowed to go for a night swim?” Walking into the ocean after dark sounds like a perfectly reasonable thing to do when the boy going with you is made of sunshine.

Harry’s expecting Louis to shout with his usual bravado about not needing permission and run down the stairs half-naked. He’s surprised when, instead, Louis remains where he is, his smile ever widening as he looks carefully at Harry’s face. “Would it be okay if we stay in? Have a shower, raid the kitchen for food and tea?”

“That’s the best idea ever,” Harry sighs, because there’s hardly a need for the beach when the boy with him is made of surf, sea, and sunlight.


End file.
